


Seeking New Experience

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Outing, Rape, Trans Male Character, Trans!Geralt, Transmisogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 06:51:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11823465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Geralt has an extremely unpleasant experience.





	Seeking New Experience

On meeting Olgierd von Everec for the first time, Geralt’s initial thoughts had been ones of aesthetic appreciation. For the most part his tastes ran to independent, fiery women but there were times that men struck his fancy, particularly when they had interesting scars. Like Eskel, for example. Or this Olgierd. Then the man had opened his mouth and revealed himself to be a pretentious arse. Pity, Geralt had mused to himself at the time. Still, coin was coin, and a contract held no obligation to like the one giving it to you. 

Naturally the job turned out to not be as simple as it had first sounded either. Learning that Olgierd had been playing him for the fool did nothing to endear him to Geralt, although he had enough sense to be equally wary of ‘Master Mirror’ Gaunter O’Dim. Geralt planned to spend as little time with either of them as possible, play his part in their farcical drama by doing the tasks that were required of him, and leave immediately thereafter. He knew hoping for that much was being extremely optimistic, but he was trying to look on the bright side of the situation he’d been dropped in. 

Showing Olgierd’s brother ‘the time of his life’ was the first of the tasks Geralt set his mind to, and one which forced him to allow the ghost to possess him. He’d have much rather it be someone - anyone - else, and not simply because he found it distasteful and unpleasant to have another person walking around in his skin, leaving him little more than a passenger in his own body. It also made the ghost aware of something Geralt generally kept hidden about himself. 

His mother Visenna had been a druid and a sorceress, and like most users of magic she had been able to tell when someone’s soul, or life-energy, or whatever the scholars were calling it these days, had been born into the wrong sort of body. Not that those scholars knew how to do anything about it when it happened. Visenna had known when her child was born that Geralt was one of those unlucky individuals. That might have had something to do with her decision to leave him with the Witchers at Kaer Morhen, not because she despised him for the accident of fate, but because of a little-known side-effect of the Trials of Grasses. The Witchers said that the Trials could only be used on boys, but they might rather say that all those who survived the Trials grew up to have the traits of men; deep voices, beards, easily-built muscle… Perhaps there were some women out there confident enough in themselves to have thought such things not too high a price to pay, but the Schools of Witchers had never given them that choice. The Trials killed more than they spared in any case.

Geralt had survived, and had taken pleasure in his changed and changing body in the years afterwards. The concoction could not do everything however, and it had taken Shani’s practised surgical hand to mould his chest into a shape he found more fitting. She could do little about what lay between his legs however, and Geralt could feel the precise moment the ghost of Vlodimir von Everec became aware of that little fact. 

Briefly the surprise was enough to throw the ghost out of his body, and Geralt ignored Vlodimir’s probing questions about it with poor grace. In the end it didn’t stop the ghost jumping back in to attend the wedding, and worse, shaving Geralt’s face to ‘neaten up’. Geralt hated having a clean chin. He had to bear it though, and consoled himself with the fact that his beard would grow back in time. He had worried what use Vlodimir might put his body to given the man’s reputation whilst he was alive, but in the end none of the ghost’s romantic lines won him the favour of any fair maids that night and Vlodimir returned to his grave once his agreed time was up with O’Dim’s aid. 

Geralt went on to the next task on his list without thinking much more on that night. 

After retrieving the house of Maximillian Borsodi, Geralt headed to the Alchemy Inn, where he found Olgierd as the man had promised. Olgierd took them through to a back room of the inn to discuss Geralt’s success, which the witcher found reasonable enough. It was not particularly a surprise when Olgierd asked about the papers which should have been inside the box, nor that he was displeased with his answer. Yet he had to accept Geralt’s reply that he should have worded his question more carefully. Geralt did wonder though if he was detecting something odd about Olgierd’s manner towards him.

“Didn’t ask me about your brother,” Geralt observed, after Olgierd had finished telling him the tale of how the Borsodi family had worsened his misfortunes. 

“No need,” Olgierd replied. “I spoke to him myself. He told you I visit his grave, didn’t he?”

Geralt made a noise of disapproval. “Couldn’t have just entertained him yourself then?”

“What I do with my requests of O’Dim is my own business,” Olgierd said, with a dismissive wave. 

“Yeah, about that. Gonna tell me what the third task is yet?”

“Later,” Olgierd said. “I think you're due some carousing of your own for your efforts. I’ll not have any man saying Olgierd von Everec can’t show his appreciation for a job well done.”

“This isn’t negotiable, is it,” Geralt said. Olgierd’s hand fell heavy on his shoulder as the man gave a grin that might be charming if it weren’t coming from him. 

“No, it’s not.”

\----

Geralt’s head was fuzzy when he came to consciousness. He tried to blink away the heavy daze, and found himself gazing up at the beams of a roof overhead. He was lying on a bed… where had he been before? Drinking with Olgierd von Everec? The man was immortal; Geralt supposed that meant his liver was too. Still, had he really been out-drunk by him? Enough so as to have no memory of the time between then and now? 

He made to get up, and found his movement abruptly cut short with a jerk at both wrists. Looking round, Geralt found he was manacled and chained to a crude iron loop that had been hammered into the timbers of the wall at the head of the bed. He tugged experimentally, but this was good smithing, and he could tell the chain was not about to break. Was this someone’s idea of a joke? He’d been stripped down to his braes too, although that was how he usually slept so it was as good odds that he’d done so himself.

“Hey! Anyone around?” he called out, cursing Olgierd in his head. 

The door of the small room swung open. Olgierd von Everec stepped through, smirking, and kicked it closed behind him. Geralt raised his wrists as far as they would go, which was barely above level of the bed, and glared at him. 

“What are you playing at Olgierd?” he asked. “You think I’m gonna be able to complete your third task like this?”

“As I said, that can come later,” Olgierd told him, seeming unconcerned. His gaze roamed over Geralt’s body in a way that sent a shiver up the witcher’s spine. “My brother had quite the tale to tell about the wedding you both attended.”

“You pissed at how the night ended?” Geralt asked. “Should be blaming O’Dim for that, not me.”

“You are his proxy are you not?” Olgierd replied. “Although no, I had something else in mind. I find I must ask, Geralt. Do all witchers have a cunt rather than a cock?”

Geralt would have lunged for him then, damn the consequences, but he was brought up short by the chains. He bared his teeth in a snarl. “I’ll thank you not to talk about something that’s none of your business. If I wanted you to know what’s between my legs I’d have offered you an invitation.”

“In my time raiding I’ve had many a maid,” Olgierd said, “both with an invitation and without. That stopped when I met my Iris and fell in love, but she now lies dead and I have nothing but the pursuit of novelty left to fill my days. You, witcher… you are novel.”

Some part of Geralt had known what was going on, yet it still struck him speechless to hear Olgierd admit it. Damn the man, and damn Vlodimir as well! There was a good reason Geralt was much more picky than Dandelion’s tales would tell it, to save himself from reactions just like this one. A woman he was not, yet some could not see it that way despite that he hadn’t looked like anyone’s idea of one for decades. “Don’t even think about coming near me,” he growled. 

Olgierd laughed. He was already unbuckling his belt, setting his saber down by the bed and loosening the sashes holding his robe closed. Geralt pulled hard against the manacles and chain again, but there wasn’t the slightest hint of movement. Olgierd was naked beneath his outer garments - Geralt didn’t like to question whether that’d been the case all along or whether he’d left them off intentionally that morning, or whatever time of day this was. His cock was starting to jut forward, half-hard. Then he came forward.

Geralt might not have the use of his hands, but his legs were still free. He kicked out, a blow that connected with Olgierd’s shoulder in a crack of breaking bone - but the man just grinned with fierce intent and rolled the joint back into place with a wet thunk. Damn it all. He knew Olgierd could feel pain - but so many injuries clearly meant he no longer paid it any mind. There was strong muscle under that robe too, carved up as it was with more scars than even the most experienced witcher. Olgierd swayed back as Geralt bucked and threw another kick, then grabbed his leg on the way back. In a moment Olgierd was settled in between his thighs, his arms keeping Geralt’s knees from squeezing the air out of him - not that doing so would do much. Geralt lunged forwards to bite, thinking Olgierd might back off out of instinct, but the man just took it, letting him sink his teeth into his neck until the blood ran out in spurts. All it did was make a mess and fill Geralt’s mouth with a metallic tang. 

“Are you this passionate with everyone?” Olgierd said, sounding amused. Geralt spat his own blood back at him. 

“You think you can keep me chained forever?”

“I don’t need to,” Olgierd replied. He slid one hand up Geralt’s thigh and into his braes. Geralt bucked wildly but it wasn’t enough to throw him off - he was stronger than a mortal man as well. Olgierd’s thumb started to circle his clit and Geralt bit back a startled gasp. “Once I’ve had what I want I’ll let you go. I’m interested to see how you might try to kill me, as I am sure you will despite knowing it to be futile.”

“You think I’ll do anything for you after this?” Geralt snarled. “Complete your damned third task?”

“You are as bound to Gaunter O’Dim as I am,” Olgierd told him, his thumb still moving in maddening, slow circles. Geralt could feel his body starting to respond in spite of his best wishes and cursed himself for it. “Try and run and see if you have better luck than I.” His fingers moved down, and sank slowly into Geralt’s cunt, curling there. Olgierd made a thoughtful sound. “Those noises you keep biting back let me know some part of you likes this, but you’re still dry. Can you even get slick?”

Geralt turned his head away, staring at the wall. If he couldn’t get Olgierd off him at least he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. 

“No matter,” Olgierd said, and shifted with a swift, squirming motion as fast as an eel. Geralt tried to take the chance to twist away from him again but Olgierd had been expecting it and moved to turn the energy against him. Geralt ended up on his back in the bed, Olgierd pinning him by his hips. With a powerful tug, the linen of Geralt’s braes was torn asunder, and then Olgierd ducked his head down and… 

Geralt couldn’t hold back his yelp as Olgierd’s wet, warm tongue dipped past his folds and into his cunt. The sensation was maddening and sickening as well - he could feel his stomach lurch in a way it usually only did after a few too many potions and decoctions. He hadn’t felt fear since before the Trial of the Grasses, knew the emotion was impossible for him, but he wondered in a moment of helplessness if this wasn’t as close as he could come to it. 

“Get the fuck off me,” he growled, though knowing it was useless. Anger was safer, although it couldn’t chase the nausea away completely. Olgierd laughed against his groin and kept going. Geralt fought to keep his breath from speeding up, though he could feel his heart pounding as though he were in the midst of a head-long chase. The tension in his body kept ratcheting up against his will, like being aroused but not, like it was happening to someone else almost. He didn’t know how long it was before Olgierd stopped using his mouth on him but by then every muscle and sinew was humming. 

Olgierd slid up between his thighs, repositioning himself. Geralt should have taken the opportunity, tried to fight him off again, but he found that he couldn’t. Couldn’t move at all, was stuck in place as though he’d been hypnotised by a fiend’s third eye. Why hadn’t he… even if it was useless… 

“That’s better isn’t it,” Olgierd said, then lined himself up and pushed in. Even with saliva to ease the way Geralt still went stiff with pain, a sharp stabbing inside him as Olgierd rocked gently, working his cock deeper. Geralt panted, trying not to whimper. He’d been hurt far worse than this, hell he’d even been stabbed in the guts in the past. That damned pitchfork hadn’t made him want to wail like this did. Olgierd’s eyes were flickering half-closed with pleasure. “Oh, yes,” he was saying, a low rumble, “tight as a ploughing virgin.”

Geralt closed his eyes, tried to ride the pain the way he knew he could. If he could slip into meditation, the way he usually would after a battle despite his injuries… but the necessary peace was impossibly far out of reach. “Get off me!” he said, and hated the way it came out, the way he sounded. 

Olgierd’s pace picked up, only making the jolts of pain come quicker and quicker. He leaned down over Geralt, his hips rolling, his arms either side of Geralt’s head and his breath damp against Geralt’s neck. Sweat was dripping down from his body, turning the narrow strip of air between them humid. Geralt kept his eyes closed, refusing to look at the man on top of him, which meant he had no warning when Olgierd started to press open-mouthed kisses onto his throat. Geralt spat out a curse, his eyes flying open in sheer surprise. 

“I had forgotten how good this could feel,” Olgierd said, close and quiet enough it was little more than low vibrations in the air. “Had you? I knew you would stop fighting it, knew you’d like it. Your cunt wants to be filled the same as any other.”

“I’ll see you dead for this,” Geralt told him, just as quietly. 

A low breathy laugh between the wet kisses. “You’ll try. Many have, and as many have failed.” Olgierd’s mouth moved up, along Geralt’s jaw, to the corner of his mouth. Geralt turned his head and bit - another warm rush of blood. Olgierd’s lips curved into a smile despite his teeth. “Feisty, aren’t you.” He shifted his weight - getting one of his hands free, Geralt realised when he felt Olgierd’s thumb against his clit again, moving firm and hard. He couldn’t help it, his body was arching into it without his conscious control. He whimpered, and hated himself for doing so.

“That’s it,” Olgierd said. “Good boy.” At least he hadn’t said girl, Geralt thought, and hated too that he was grateful for that much. 

Olgierd’s gasps of pleasure were coming faster and faster, the movements of his hips more erratic, and he kept up the circling of his thumb in time with it all. Geralt could feel the tension building in the body on top of him, and could feel it in his own body too. His mind though just felt sick and ill. Small noises were being drawn out of him, though he could just manage to keep from being as vocal as he usually would. As he would have been if he’d wanted this. 

“That’s right,” Olgierd was saying. “That’s right, come on. Come for me.” 

It was as inevitable as the changing of the tides, as falling. Geralt felt the wave come over him, crashing through his body, tensing every muscle with bone-breaking force but leaving his mind clear and miserable. His cunt was clenching around Olgierd’s cock in a way he hoped was damned painful, though by the way Olgierd was cursing breathily he was enjoying it. Then, as Geralt came down from it, he felt Olgierd tense up as well, felt the cock inside him spurting as the man ploughed him in the last rough jolts. Olgierd’s full weight came down on top of him with a sigh of pleasure and satisfaction, and there was a hand suddenly in his hair - damn it all - petting him! 

Olgierd lay there a few moments more such that Geralt began to worry he might fall asleep with his cock still inside him, and then he rolled off and stretched, languid as a cat. Geralt didn’t move, feeling seed starting to trickle out of him, desperately wishing for a tub of near-boiling hot water, or at the very least, a bowl and a washcloth. Though he felt he wouldn’t be able to get the feel of Olgierd off him no matter how hard he tried. 

“I’ll let you out later,” Olgerid said, after a long moment’s silence, patting Geralt’s thigh and making him flinch. “If I decide I don’t want another taste of you.” He got up, wrapping his robe around him, and left. 

Geralt tried not to think about anything at all.


End file.
